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Where to start with kinks when your fiancé doesn’t want to be touched?
Does a man who’s never been touched evenhavekinks?
“I’m a little more curious about yours,” I say. “I’m told you’re the untouchable man.”
“I’ve never found it necessary,” he says. “There are numerous ways to achieve pleasure without physical contact. And when you’re in my line of work…well, it’s safer to avoid that.”
“So the rumors are true,” I say. “You’ve never actually been touched?”
He cocks his head, his eyes flashing red, then green. I try to catalog the different emotions I associate with those colors, but it’s hard to parse them out when he’s so evasive. “I was stabbed in my teens,” he says. “Beaten. I nearly died. So touch is…”
He trails off, his eyes flitting out the window toward the skyline. Damn it—I’m starting to feel bad for the guy. These things happen, of course. It’s my job to generate intimacy with my targets, and sometimes I have to do bad things to people I’ve forged an emotional connection with. I remind myself that I’m doing this for Layla.
And besides—he’s already opening up to me. That’s a good thing.
“I can see how that could generate some ambivalence toward the whole thing,” I say. “But doesn’t that mean you’re missing out on quite a bit? I mean…sex is one of my favorite things to do. Or uh, have, I guess.”
“You seem to have some misunderstandings about Aelyd culture,” he says. “We prefer to take our pleasure in other ways, and sex is not often on the table.”
I wouldn’t mind fucking him on a table, I think.
But I don’t say that.
“So how do you like it?” I ask, widening my legs a little further, my ankle hooked over my knee.
Atlas’ eyes bore into that gap between my thighs, and I get the impression he’s lying to himself about not wanting to have sex. His black tongue flicks out over silver lips, and I catch sight of sharp teeth. I wonder what those teeth would feel like sinking into my skin.
Get your mind out of the gutter and back on task, Penn.
“I box,” he says. He spreads out the fingers of one of his big hands, putting his knuckles on display for me as if I hadn’t already taken in every detail. I can definitely see it—the healed scars from split knuckles, calluses on his palms. Even if Atlas isn’t touching other living beings, he’s a man who likes to use his hands.
“Well,” I murmur, “if we’re talking kinks…we might run into a little bit of a problem there. Because Iloveto be touched.”
Buzzing erupts all over my skin, like I’ve touched something staticky. This is a different kind of sensation than the one I had with Keon—each Gifted Aelyd seems to have a distinct flavor and style. It’s like…sitting in a muscle car, feeling it rumbling all around you.
I take a shuddering breath.
Atlas sips his drink, his other hand on his knee. I watch his fingers curl around that knee, and it’s like he’s touchingmeand not himself.
“I can stop, if you want me to,” he says.
Another thing I didn’t expect—regular consent checks from a guy who basically just bought me to breed me. “Allow me to decode human behavior a bit for you,” I say. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”
“But it’s important for me to ask,” he says. “I don’t believe in touching people without their permission.”
“You’re not touching me, though,” I say.
He smiles, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Actually, it’s more complicated than that,” he says. “We call it the Gift; your people call it telekinesis. I’m not touching you with my body, but with my mind…Penn.”
My name has never sounded better than with him wrapping his lips around it. I let my other foot slide to the floor, putting my heel down with a click on marble. I suddenly become acutely aware that there are dozens of people watching, and I wonder if this is all some kind of show for the Ganivet king to illustrate his power.
I don’t think so, though. Because Atlas is entirely focused on me.
“Every lifeform has a distinct electrical signature,” he says. “And yours is…subtle. Sweet, with a shock of something darker. I don’t know if it’s danger or deviance.”
“I’m not dangerous,” I blurt out.
“Lie,” he growls. “You’re dangerous indeed. Wrapped up in a sparkling package, and begging to be fucked when I haven’t touched a living soul in well over twenty years.”
